


Secret Santa

by Professional_Creeper



Series: Holiday Bingo 2020 [4]
Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Angst, Bisexual Rafael Barba, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Presents, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff, Gang Rape, Gender-neutral Reader, Hurt Rafael Barba, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, Love Confessions, M/M, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Other, Rafael Barba Whump, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:00:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28089654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Professional_Creeper/pseuds/Professional_Creeper
Summary: Barba is emotionally fragile after surviving an extreme trauma. Before it happened, he was going to finally admit his crush on you, but now he doesn't know if you'll ever see him as anything but broken.(sexual assault is all off-camera, but the immediate aftermath is explicit)Written for @thatesqcrush’s Holiday Bingo on Tumblr
Relationships: Rafael Barba/Reader
Series: Holiday Bingo 2020 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2093550
Comments: 3
Kudos: 29





	1. Navidad

Your ideal boyfriend would feed you chocolate like grapes in one of those ancient Greek paintings.

It was just an offhand remark you’d made at the bar one night in response to Rollins’s tipsy line of questioning about the perfect man. ADA Barba didn’t usually go out to socialize with the SVU squad, but he knew you were going to be there, so he went, too.

And not just any chocolate—no. Real, seventy-percent dark chocolate, single-origin beans. You preferred the fruity undertones of Madagascar cocoa, but were interested in exploring.

That was why Barba was carrying a box of expensive chocolate under his arm that night as he walked toward the 16th Precinct. He only agreed to participate in the SVU’s Secret Santa hoping he might get you, and was thrilled when he did. After a little trading. He knew Sonny would want Rollins, so it was easy to shuffle a few names around without making his own intentions obvious.

He bought a sampler box of fair-trade cocoas from around the world. The tag included a joke about feeding them to you, if you wanted. This year, Barba promised himself, he was going to admit his feelings for you.

Maybe it was foolish. You could have anyone. Why would you choose the cranky old lawyer? But he saw the approving way your eyes caught on him sometimes, when you didn’t think he was looking. The eternal pessimist in him said you just enjoyed his colorful ties, but it was enough to give him hope. The starved optimist whispered promises in his ear that this Christmas, he wouldn’t have to be alone.

Maybe this was the year he would fall asleep with a warm body tangled pleasantly around his as snow fell over the city.

That was what he was thinking about when it happened. The theoretical conversation with you distracted him from his surroundings, turning his cheeks pink from more than the early December chill. He didn’t hear the footsteps behind him until there was a sharp pain at the back of his head.

The box of chocolates slipped from his hands as he hit the ground, and rolled into the gutter. The flirtatious tag soaked with half-frozen slush until the ink blurred and ran.

* * *

When Barba didn’t make it to the Secret Santa exchange, you worried. But only a little. Olivia was sure he was just running late. Barba was always getting caught up with something or other, either being dragged into a meeting, or simply letting his social life slide in favor of working late.

When Liv’s call went to voicemail, you really started to worry. At least enough to call his office and find out he left for the precinct over an hour ago.

That nagging worry was confirmed the more you tried to find him, and turned into terror as it became an investigation. The ADA was missing. Security camera footage from a local bodega showed him being struck over the head with a bat and dragged into a van by three suspects.

One of them was identified as Jeremy Jones, a man whom Barba had tried to convict for a series of brutal rapes against closeted gay men. Ultimately, he was charged with manslaughter for the death of one of his victims. He served only half of a paltry six-year sentence and was released on good behavior that week. Apparently, Jones held a particular grudge against the openly bi prosecutor who tried to convict him of a hate crime. And he had made a few friends in prison.

The manhunt lasted three days, and the entire time you felt sick. Every hour—every minute—you didn’t find him was another minute god knows what was happening to Barba. If he was even still alive.

Only one of Jones’s victims had died, you tried to calm yourself. Of a heart attack. Barba was strong. But Jones wasn’t acting alone this time.

You felt sick.

After three days and a shootout with the NYPD, you found where Jones and his gang were hiding out.

You were the first one to discover the basement door, to kick it open.

You found Barba handcuffed to a bed, naked and beaten. His wrist was a horrible red-purple bruise where the metal dug in. His eyes were glassy and unfocused, though he seemed to be conscious. You radioed in for help and rushed to him, holding his head up, praying he was responsive. He yelped at the touch, recoiling from it. The cuffs rattled on the metal headboard.

“It’s OK. Shh. Rafael. It’s me,” you soothed, sitting at the corner of the bed beside him. “It’s the NYPD. We got them. You’re safe now. OK? They’re gone. The paramedics are already on the way.”

His eyes cleared, focused on you for just a moment. He seemed to recognize you—to understand what was happening. His mouth opened and almost made words, but only a dry rattle came out. His lips were swollen, and cracked with dehydration. Tears started rolling down his face, then. Dark, coppery dried blood covered the inside of his legs, pooled on the mattress, and bright red fresh blood streamed down over it.

He’d been missing for three days. Three whole days.

It was bad. He was in bad shape. You prayed the paramedics would get there soon. For the quick-witted prosecutor to be rendered unable to speak, his hair disheveled and plastered to his head with blood and fluids… For anyone to have done this to him… You tried to stay calm to help him be calm, but you were boiling over with rage and guilt.

It was your fault for not finding him sooner. For not being a better detective. For not worrying the second he was late.

Heavy footsteps pounded down the basement stairs and every muscle in his exhausted body went rigid. His free hand clung to you, nails digging into the skin of your palm.

“It’s just the paramedics.” You covered his hand with your own, squeezing. “They’re going to help you. I’ll be right here. You’re going to be OK, do you understand?”—his eyes were so blank and unfocused you weren’t sure that he did—“We found you, and… and you’re going to be OK now. We’re going to fix this.” Your voice was shaking.

It was a good thing the paramedics came in and took over before you started crying. The way his hand tightly held yours, not wanting to let go, wrenched your heart, and you needed to take a few minutes before you could be a detective again.

* * *

Barba was in the hospital for a week before being released. You went to see him, but were told he wasn’t taking visitors.

A week before Christmas, he reported to work.

A whole group from the 16th Precinct went down to 1 Hogan Place to welcome him back. He looked at home in his office, where he was supposed to be. His suit was as sharp (and loud) as ever. His hair was made without a strand out of place. You were relieved to see he was himself again. But his eyes were still haunted, and he flinched when Sonny knocked too loudly on the door frame.

He gave a weary smile, thanked everyone for their support, and sent everyone away except Liv.

Including you.

Your heart sank at the blow-off. You knew he’d weaseled half the precinct into trading Secret Santas until he got you. That had to mean you were special to him, the same way he was special to you.

Barba meant… more than you’d like to admit. It started so small you barely noticed it—that you were more inclined to go to events if Barba was also going. That you were always on his side during controversial cases, and even when you disagreed, you were more inclined to hear out his opinion than if he were anyone else. Then Rollins had a few tequila shots and started talking boys, and how the perfect man didn’t exist.

When you thought about the perfect man, only one person came to mind.

And you hadn’t had a chance to talk to him.

You knew he was going through something difficult, but that was why you wanted to be there for him. You wanted so badly to be part of his inner circle, like Liv—one of the people he leaned on instead of sending away.

You tried his office again the next day, by yourself. He avoided you, claiming he was busy with backlogged paperwork. The day after that, he legitimately wasn’t there—at the hospital for a follow-up—but never returned the message you left with Carmen.

On Christmas Eve, you tried again during lunch break. The lights were on in his office, but Carmen said he wasn’t there, sympathy in her eyes. He was there. You both knew it. He just didn’t want to see you. That night, you left him in peace. He would be spending Nochebuena with his mother, and you had plans of your own.

But on Christmas morning, you knew he wouldn’t be working all day. Neither were you.

You sent him a text and said you were coming over. He never responded, but an hour later, you knocked on his apartment door, anyway.

Footsteps slowly approached the door. A shadow fell over the peephole, and you grinned nervously, giving a little wave. The deadbolt slid open, then the door chain, and finally it opened to a tense lawyer, well dressed even on his day off in a cashmere sweater and chinos. Dark circles ringed his eyes from lack of sleep.

“Detective. H-hey. It’s not a good time. I’m… busy.” The flush in his cheeks rose, and he seemed eager to retreat back inside.

“You owe me a Christmas present!” you blurted out. It was juvenile. You knew the moment you opened your mouth it sounded like something a toddler would say, but at least it stopped him from closing the door on you.

He blinked. His chin tipped up just slightly in that haughty way that always preceded a cutting bit of sarcasm. “…Excuse me, I _what?_ ”

“It’s Christmas. You were my Secret Santa. So you owe me a gift.”

Realization dawned over him, along with the memory of everything that had happened the night he was meant to give you your present. His face fell.

“I… I’m sorry. I lost it.”

His eyes took on a dull, far away look, and you instantly regretted bringing it up. _Of course that would be a painful memory. Fuck._

“It’s OK!” you took a step toward him, and he took one quickly back. _Shit, you shouldn’t have done that,_ you scolded yourself. His face grew hotter, and he seemed humiliated with himself. “I-I mean… for the gift. All I want is to talk to you. For a minute. That would be plenty of a gift, if you could spare it. I just want to know how you’re doing.”

“I wish everyone would stop asking me that,” he snapped.

“Well, I haven’t had the chance yet. It feels like you’ve been avoiding me. I just wanted to know if… if _we’re_ OK.”

He paused. He didn’t answer immediately, but his expression softened. “I… I haven’t been…” He sighed, and ran his fingers through his hair. His jaw kept working, lips reshaping themselves of the cusp of words, as if he were trying to continue, but couldn’t find the right ones. The words that would make sense, and explain everything—that would click together like a jigsaw puzzle and make everything better.

“I just thought that we were… _friends._ And… I was worried about you… And now I’m worried you’re pushing me away. I know we’re not as close as you and Olivia… but…” Your head hung low. “Did I do something wrong?”

Barba turned away. He wrapped a hand over his face, fingers shielding his eyes from you. “I know you were the one who found me,” he groaned miserably. “I didn’t want you to see me like that. You of all people… Because now you’ll never be able to look at me without part of you always seeing me… like that. Like a victim.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is, and you know it!” he snarled, surprising you with the sudden rise in volume.

He was seething, hurting, and you wanted to reassure him that you would never see him as less because of what was done to him. You laid a hand on his arm to comfort him, and he jerked away.

“Stop that! See? You’re doing it. Treating me like I’m… broken.” His whole body seemed to deflate, to shrink into itself. “It’s too late,” he croaked, a wistful smile cruelly turning the corner of his lip. “I’m never going to be _whole_ in your eyes now.”

“Of course you are.”

He gave a sharp, nasal huff. “Not like— _ugh_ , never mind.”

“Not like what?”

His eyes met yours—green and turbulent as the ocean, but as vulnerable as a freshly sprouted leaf in the early spring. There was a harrowed desperation in the creases of his forehead, the little wrinkles under his eyes deepening. “Like someone you could… _Forget it!_ ” He looked away, blinking rapidly.

“Barba… did you want to… Do you _like…?_ ”

You had a hopeful spark, an idea of what he was trying to say, what was bothering him, but you were afraid to say it and be proven wrong. You searched his face, inching closer. He looked horrified, like you were calling him out rather than hoping for it to be true—you were rifling through the sock drawer of his emotions.

No. You had to be the open one. He had too much to worry about already. You had to take the risk with your feelings.

“What I mean is… Please stop me if I’m out of line, but, Barba… _Rafael_ … I like you. I’ve wanted to tell you for a while, but I kept hoping you’d say it first, in case I was imagining things and you didn’t feel the same way. Then you disappeared, and…” Your breath caught in a tightening throat. “I thought I’d lost you forever. When we found you alive… Whatever you think changed with how I see you, all I was thinking was how happy I was you were _alive._ And that I’d get another chance to tell you how much I care about you.” You were openly sobbing by the end, drying your eyes on your sleeves to no avail.

He had turned completely toward you at some point during your confession, no longer half-hiding his face. Some of the remaining distance between you had disappeared, too. His hands softly came up to press your upper arms. Even through your puffy winter coat, you could feel how big and strong they were.

You swallowed, meeting his deep gaze. “And I really want to kiss you now… if that would be alright.”

“I… I’d like that.”

Though he trembled slightly, his breathing was soft and steady as you leaned toward him. The kiss was gentle and easy, starting with foreheads touching, noses brushing against each other. Then lips, delicately ghosting over each other. His were still healing, tender where they were split. You let him close the final micron of distance, pressing the warm fullness of his lips against yours. His hand caressed the side of your face, and his thumb delicately brushed the hair at your temple.

“Can we go slow?” he breathed as he pulled away, though not far. He kept his hand on your face, the other about your waist. “I know I just said I’m not broken…”

“But you need time. I understand. Trust me.”

The corners of his eyes wrinkled in a melancholy smile as he stroked the side of your face longingly.

“I’m comfortable with whatever pace you want to set. Whether it’s holding hands, or… just talking. So long as I can keep spending time with you. I missed you. That’s all I need to be happy—just getting to be around my favorite counselor.”

He leaned in and kissed your forehead. “You know… you’re my favorite detective.”

“Oh yeah?” you challenged, grinning. “What about Liv?”

“She’s a _lieutenant._ ”

“Ack! Got me on a technicality!”

“There’s no such thing as a technicality in law,” Barba smirked, playfully smug.

You snorted. Cheeky bastard.

“Can I kiss you again?”

“Rafael, you can kiss me as many times as you like.”

His mouth melded against yours more confidently this time. More insistent, and yet more vulnerable, a soft groan reverberating in his throat. Just once, his lips parted yours, and his tongue darted out, tasting the opening of your lips before retreating shyly back. You let him lead, and didn’t push for more. You meant it when you said just being near him, part of his world, was enough.

He invited you inside.

If this was to make up for your gift, he owed you more than just a _minute_ of conversation at his door, he said, smiling. For the rest of the day, Barba turned his tidy, tiny Manhattan flat into a cozy winter wonderland, complete with hot cocoa (spiked with spiced rum, of course), warm throw blankets, and an endless marathon of holiday movies to watch while snuggling on the couch.

It was the best Christmas you could remember, especially when, before the sun had even begun to set, Barba fell asleep holding you. The worry lines carved into his face smoothed out as he breathed steadily. He looked so peaceful, you didn’t mind being trapped on the couch until he woke up.

Maybe, you thought, those dark circles could start to fade.


	2. Nochevieja

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barba is very neat. You are very messy. You have feelings for him that are better expressed in Spanish. 
> 
> A fluffy bonus chapter.

It was _your_ dumb idea to make turrón de maní, so you could hardly blame Barba or curse his Cuban ancestors for the disaster that became of your kitchen. In fact, when you decided to wholeheartedly embrace his culture, your boyfriend-as-of-last-week rolled his eyes and suggested you could just buy some like a normal person.

But no.

You wanted it to be special.

Rafael Barba was all you wanted for Christmas, and your first kiss was like a gift—Mariah Carey would be so proud. You were buzzing with energy to celebrate, but he just wanted to take it easy for Nochevieja and have a quiet night in, _maybe_ staying awake long enough to see the ball drop on TV. So you thought a little holiday baking would make things more festive.

There were only three ingredients—how hard could it be?

Now your countertops were drizzled with spilled caramel, the pot had a layer of burned sugar glued to the bottom like cement, and you hadn’t been careful enough lining the Pyrex dish with parchment paper. When the turrón was cool enough to eat, you anticipated having a hell of a time getting it out.

And Barba was spending his quiet night in scrubbing your kitchen.

“I told you I could pick some up if you wanted to try it—I know a great café that sells them.”

It was a good thing you decided to do this at your place instead of his. You could tell he hated the mess, and he would probably burst a blood vessel if your culinary experimentation was splattered all over _his_ kitchen.

“You don’t have to help,” you groaned, cheeks flaming at your devastating failure. “Go relax.”

He stopped scrubbing the stove, and you couldn’t help notice how thick the muscles were in his bent arm, straining the sleeve of his sweater. How domestic the scene was, with an apron tied around his waist.

He looked up. “But the company is better in here.”

Green eyes met yours, a playful gleam in them, and your heart burst out of your rib cage like the Kool-Aid Man. Blood everywhere. Explosive.

That was what it felt like, anyway—it was as ridiculous and childish and dramatic as that every time he looked at you smiling. You were supposed to be an adult, not a teenage girl at a One Direction concert, but the feeling bubbling inside you was too strong to contain. It tickled and it ached, like a million tiny mouse hands pulling you apart, and the only thing that could quiet it was to hold him tight and cover him with kisses—and even that wasn’t enough. You wanted to drown in his arms and suffocate on his scent. You wanted to camp in the forest of his chest hair and frame his eyes in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. You wanted to take care of him, protect him, and be the person who makes him happiest in the world.

You were losing your damned mind.

Maybe it was how long you’d been friends, or how deeply you felt for what he’d been through—how protective it made you—but a voice kept screaming _I love you, I love you, I love you_ , and you were afraid it might slip out.

Barba tipped his head, brow furrowed. “Are you OK?”

Oh, crap. How much of that was written on your face. How long had you been staring?

“What is it?”

“Nothing!” you said quickly. Too quickly. A nervous squeak.

The furrow in Barba’s brow deepened. “Now I’m worried. What?”

“I was just thinking about…” your mind went blank “…French fries.”

“You were thinking about French fries?”

You cringed and let your whole body sag onto the counter beside the sink, leaving the burned pot to soak. “Crap.” You let out a wailing grumble of pure misery. “Now I either have to lie—which I don’t want to do—or tell you what I was thinking about—which I _really_ don’t want to do.”

Worry was officially upgraded to alarm. Barba dropped the sponge and rushed over to comfort you—but not knowing what you were upset about, he froze. He stiffly reached out and patted your back.

“OK, OK… relájate. Calm down. You don’t have to tell me.” He paused. “Was it something bad? About us? About me? Do… you want to go back to just being friends? I—”

Your head shot up from the counter. “No!”

Those green eyes caught yours again, like a beautiful trap. Your cheeks were smiling before you realized they changed, and your hand was drawn to his face, stroking the side of it, a slight sandpapery rasp of stubble under your thumb.

God, you loved him. Wasn’t that what you were feeling? Love?

No—you’d only been dating for a _week._ What you felt was infatuation. Your brain was a silly teenager soup of hormones that didn’t know up from down when it came to Barba, but as a rational adult, you knew the difference between that and love. Still, it might have meant something that you hadn’t felt that way in years.

You pressed a kiss to his drawn lips, giving him a dopey, love-struck smile. “It’s nothing bad at all.”

He relaxed, a hand coming to rest on the small of your back, pulling you gently against him. He returned your smile. It reached his eyes, but was lean and without teeth, and carried a hint of sadness that always accompanied him in moments of genuine emotion. It was how you knew he wasn’t faking being happy, when he looked a little sad, too.

“All right, then. Keep your secrets,” he smirked, kissing you again. He tasted like the honey he’d licked off the spoon, and peanuts he kept snacking on until there weren’t enough for the recipe. _Delicioso._

Suddenly it hit you.

“Te quiero!” you blurted. “That’s what I was thinking—oh, thank god for Spanish!”

Green eyes widened at you and blinked once, twice, three times just be sure. Then Barba laughed, and his expression hardened into a smugly victorious checkmate you’d seen him use in court right before the defense would beg for a plea deal.

“Is that so?” he purred.

“Yeah,” you breathed, melting at the way his strong arms tightened their grip around you. “I was thinking about how much I care about you. But it would be crazy to say ‘I love you’ so soon. Love is something that has to grow over time—it’s not just hormonal brain soup. But Spanish! Spanish is smart enough to have levels. Te amo is the _‘I’m gonna fucking marry you!’_ one, which would be a little premature. But… I want what we have to keep growing. Te quiero, Rafael. Te quiero mucho.” Your cheeks burned, and you added uncertainly, “Am I using that right?”

He leaned his forehead against yours, his breath soft on your lips. “I’m glad you feel that way, because sometimes I feel like I’m losing my mind around you...” His chin tilted forward, pressing his warm lips to yours, slow and gradual, taking his time to deepen the kiss as his hands tenderly explored the back of your sweater. “Yo también te quiero.”

After a few hours in the refrigerator, the turrónes were ready to be cut into bars and eaten. Despite your many amateur mistakes and messy process, they turned out delicious.

Rafael Barba snuggled next to you on the couch, waiting for midnight. The announcers on TV wearing earmuffs and scarves looked half-frozen, and he was glad he wasn’t being crushed by the crowd in Times Square. In his old age, he preferred to be comfortable. Being under a blanket with you, sharing body heat, was much better than going out.

This had been the worst year of his life. But, as he turned to watch you nibbling the corner of a candy, it occurred to him that it might have been the best one, too. Right there at the end, unexpectedly, his luck turned around. He squeezed your free hand, fingers twining, and you gave a sweet sigh that set his heart dancing like confetti through the air.

Next year might just be wonderful.


End file.
